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GIFT   OF 


Gaylord  Bros. 

Makers 

Syracuse,  N.  Y. 
PAT.  JAN.  21,  1908 


BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


SOUVENIRS 

STANLEY  KIMMEL 


FORNIA  LIBRARY 


Lsaeagfiiiy';:  jgfigisasi 


SOUVENIRS 


Stanley  Kimmel 

Author 
'Poems  and  Fantasies" 


Copyright  1919 

"The  Publishers  of  Little  Books' 
San  Francis90,,Calif. 


On  entre,  on  crie, 
Et  c'est  la  vie! 
On  bailie,  on  sort, 
Et  c'est  la  mort! 
— A.  de  Chancel. 


413167 


ATLANTIC 


I  love  the  freshness  of  the  open  sea, 
The  blue  desert,   the   eternity 
Of   silent  ships.     Waves   madly 

embracing, 
The  blush  of  white  foam  on  their  wan 

faces, 

The  aftermath  of  passion. 
Drifting  mountains  of  golden  mist, 
Forests  of  far  away  clouds, 
And  the  purple  evening  approaching; 
The  passing  of  caravans 
Upon  a  phantomed  canvas, 
The   colors   of   day    fading. 
Darkness. 


BLUE  RAIN 

Rain  in  the  forest  and  evening, 

Blue  rain  and  things  which  are  green, 

And  squares  where  a  shadow  lingers, 

Where  Death  stalks  about,  unseen. 

Echoing  roar  of  the  cannons, 

The   click   of  the   horses'    hoofs, 

Rattling  camions  passing 

The  shattered  grey  walls  and  roofs; 

"Post  de  Secours"  on  the  hillside, 

Skeleton  towers  which  loom 

Far  to  the  rear  of  the  troopers 

Passing  along  through  the  gloom. 

Rain  in  the  forest  and  evening, 

Blue  rain  and  things  which  are  green, 

And  squares  where  a  shadow  lingers, 

Where  Death  stalks  about,  unseen. 


LEFT-OVERS 


They  were  only  women 

Those  things  which  stood 

Before   us  in   the  drenching  rain 

Clasping  small,  frail  bits 

Of  flesh  to  their  breasts. 

Half-naked  they  were,  and  half-starved, 

Beaten  and  bruised  and  some,  bleeding. 

Like  cattle  they  huddled  together 

For  warmth.  The  doctors  passed  among 

them 
Caring  for  those  who  had  just  given 

birth 

And  those  whose  hour  was  near. 
They  did  not  cry  or  blaspheme, 
Simply   looked   as   if   thinking 
Of  something  far  away. 
Soon  the  large  wagons  came, 
And  the  ambulance  corps, 
And  those  who  bury  the  dead. 
They  were  all  taken  to  the  rear, 
But  the  wagons  were  not  very  full. 

About  us,  the  ruins  of  the  village. 
Many  old  men  and  children,  motionless, 
And  those  who  knew  the  smell 
Of  powder  and  blood  and  dirt. 


HOPELESSNESS 

What  good,  the  coming  of  the  morrow, 
If  but  to  tread  again  through  blood, 
And  hear  the  trailing  cry  of  sorrow, 
And  mocking  Death's  dull  drumming 
thud. 

What  good  the  sun,   the  starlight's 

shimmer, 

The  cooling  breeze  of  early  dawn, 
If  only  on  the  dead  to  glimmer, 
Or  cool  the  cheeks  of  those  beyond. 

Verdun, 
1917 


MORNING  NEAR  MORT 
HOMME 


O'er    the    soil   a    faint    ray   of   sunlight 

gleams, 
And    falls    on    formless    heaps    of    cold, 

blue  flesh. 
The  hills,  once  green,  are  bare  and 

desolate; 
There,  naught  remains  save  those  small 

pools  of  blood 
Which   Freedom   gave   to   Charon    for 

her    fare 

Across  the  bleak  Cimmerian  divide. 
Beyond,  a  painted  forest  of  rare  jade, 
'Neath   purple   clouds   fringed  with 

Moresque   design. 
And  great,  black  birds  which  lounge  in 

the  mid-air. 
The   dawn   is   torn   by   tireless,   gulping 

guns, 

Where  Liberty,  like  some  vain  courtesan 
In  a  red  robe,  struts  proudly  to  her 

doom. 


TROOPS 

They   are   passing 

Over    the  dark    ridge, 

Thousands,  yet  all  is  still. 

It  is  cold  and  the  night  is  grey, 

But  they  are  a  swarm  of  black 

And  tread  along  in  silence. 

Is  it  this  one,  whose  sorrowful  eyes 

Scarcely  notices  us,  is  he  the  one 

To  be  bayoneted,  or  is  it  the  young  man 

Who  smiled  and  said,   "Americain," 

Or  the  three  to  whom  we  gave  cigarettes, 

Are  they  to  be  shot  down  like  wild  animals, 

These  men  who  thanked  us  for  cigarettes? 

Remember  the  man  whose  legs  and  arms 

Were  missing  when  we  found  him 

On  Hill  Three-hundred-four? 

(He  died  five  minutes  later) 

Will  these  men  know  such  suffering? 

And  they  who  were  left  behind. 

Mothers,  fathers,  sisters  and  those 

Who  walk   the   evening  paths  alone, 

And  those  who  draw 

Their  small  tin  soldiers  over  quiet  ground; 


What  will  they  do  when  the  word  is 

Brought  to  them,  when  they 

Tell  them  another  victory  has  been  won? 

Jubecourt, 
August,   1917 


THE  BURDEN 

Winds  are  tired  of  their  wailing, 
Rains  of  their  weeping  too, 
Earth  of  its  bloody  burden, 
Sky  of  its  smoky  blue; 
Tired   of   their  bitter  sorrow, 
Tired  of  their  hellish  night, 
Tired  of  the  roar  of  battle, 
Tired  of  an  endless  fight. 


PRISONER 

"I   must  go   down   now 

And  open  the  shop 

The  little   shop  where 

I   work   for  Herr   Goff. 

In   an   hour   or   so 

She  will   come  to  buy 

A  loaf  of  bread, 

(She  gives  me   a  rose 

For  her  loaf  of  bread.) 

She  will  come  for 

A  loaf  of  bread,   because 

She  gets  a  loaf  every  day 

And   because   we   are 

To  wed  very  soon,  so  every  day 

She  comes  to  the  shop. 

But  first  I  must  find  the  keys. 

The  keys  to  the  little  shop 

Of  Herr  Goff." 


THE   OUTCAST 


He   spoke  to  me 

Continually    of    Yvonne 

And   told   me  how, 

When  he  arrived  in  Paris 

On   his   permission, 

He   had    searched    for   her. 

She  was  not  in  the  quarters 

They  had  taken  after  the  retreat 

From  Revigny.    But   one   day, 

As  he  was  walking  along  the 

boulevard, 

She  passed,   gowned  in  black, 
Silk  as  much  as  possible, 
And  a  large  hat. 
Oh  yes.    he  knew  just  why 
She  dressed  like  that, 
And  he  knew — 
She  was  smiling  and  talking 
Very  lively  to  the  British  Officer. 

The  day  following  he  reported 
To  his  post  on  the  front. 


I  left  him  and  went  up  to  Montzeville. 
When  the  return  trip  was  made 
I  saw  a  man  whom  they  told  me 
Was   handling  a   hand   grenade 
WThen  it  exploded  and  killed  him. 
The   officer  cautioned   everyone 
Standing  near  us  to  be  careful. 
And  gave  the  accident  as  an  example. 


BLUE  STEEL 

God! 

Today  I  killed  a  man. 

I  stuck  him  through 

And  saw  his  blood  spurt. 

His  flesh  was  like  warm  butter, 

Heard  him  cry  and  say  something 

Which  I  did  not  understand. 

He  fell  and  took  my  gun  with  him, 

And   then— I    thought   of  Liege, 

And  did  not  give 

A  damn. 


THE  DEAD 


We  looked  at  the  dead 

And   wondered   if   they   knew 

The  perfumed  sweetness  of  rest, 

And  the  softness  of  the  dying  day. 

We  wondered  if  they  could  hear 

The  distant  roar  of  the  cannon. 

Those  thing's  which  were  once  men, 

Those  pieces  of  human  junk, 

Stacked  upon  one  another. 

One  without  a  head; 

One  whose  limbs  had  been  blown  to  dust; 

The  one  whom  the  priest  told  us 

"They  thought  was  an  officer:" 

Only  a  small  bundle  and  the  worms 

Waiting  to   devour   it. 

The  peasant's  house   where 

Crosses  were  made 

And  the  hill,  shorn  of  its  grain. 

The  sound  of  the  picks, 

And  the  falling  of  dirt. 

Bois  de  Bethelainville 


THE  FIFTH  DAY 


The  mud  was  over  our  boot-tops 

And   the   rain   still  falling. 

Some  of  the  men  were  out  of  it  already, 

And  many  more  near  the  point  of  being 

sent  back. 

Our  hearts  were  steeped 
In   the   slime  as   we   stood 
There  waiting,   waiting,   days  of   it, 
With  the  shells  pouring  in  upon  us, 
And  the  gas,  when  the  wind  was  right. 
But   the   S.    A.    sent   up 
Hot  drinks  and  tobacco, 
Which  helped  to  keep  the  men  going. 
When    the    damn   thing   was   over 
The  Red  Cross  gave  warm  clothing 
To  those  who  were  left. 
The   nurses   smiled   in   the  rooms 
And  cried  in  the  hall-ways. 
A  hospital  is  a  very  peculiar  place. 


IN    THE    HOSPITAL 

(Paris) 

From  the  balcony 

I  see  the  courtyard  below  me, 

And   the   walls   round   about, 

Dotted  with   windows, 

And  those  who  gaze  from  white 

covered   beds. 

Near  the  fountain  are  two  Frenchmen. 
One,  a  leg  and  arm  missing,  the  other, 

blind. 

They  are   talking  in   low  tones, 
But  they  do  not  smile. 
The  sky  is  clear, 
And   the   sun   peeps   over 
The    red    tile    roof. 
A  man   in   white,   walks 
Slowly  toward  them 
Holding  his  hand  to  his  lips. 
The  Frenchman  sees  him  and  calls, 
"How  is  Jean,  how  is  my  brother?" 
"Ah,   Monsieur,  all   is  finished." 
The  man   bears  his  face 
In   his  only  hand  while 
His  comrade  speaks  very   softly, 
But  he  does  not  smile. 
The  sky  is   clear, 
And    the    sun   peeps    over 
The  red  tile  roof. 


CAFE  IN  RUE  SAINT  HONORE 

The   day   glimmers 

And  the  lights  of  evening  flicker  about. 
Two  old  men   sit  by   the   window 
Slowly  shuffling  cards  across  an  iron 

table. 

Outside   a   group   of   soldiers   carouse 
And   throw  their  half-drunken 
Glances  at  those  who  pass. 
High  wheeled  carts  roll  drowsily 
Along    the    rue    Saint   Honor6 
Like  some  aged   man 
Bound-up  in  a  heavy  coat. 
Long,   black  veils  of  the  women 
Color  the  atmosphere. 
Night  is  coming  on. 
Tomorrow  there  will   be   more   black 

veils, 
Then  the  night  again. 


THE   DANCER 

(Boulevard  de   Clicy) 


Hi,  with  the  dance! 
The  tambourines  tinkle, 
A  girl   in   green, 
Like  an  opiate  queen, 
Glides  o'er  the  mall 
As  a  snake  on  the  wall. 

Hi,   with  the  dance! 

Give  me  a  cigarette! 
The  police  are  asleep 
In  Pigalle  street, 
Where  good  people  go 
To  church  and  pray, 
(Their  gowns  they  must  show.) 
Hi,   with  the  dance! 

Monsieurs; 

Vingt  sou,  s'il  vous  plait, 
And  the  minx  will  prance 
In    her   serpentine   trance. 
Ah,    merci,    merci, 
Strike  up  the  tambourines. 
Hi,  with  the  dance! 


AN  OLD  MAN 

"Maps,    maps, 

Maps   of  Paris, 

Buy  a  map, 

Maps    for    the    English, 

You    take    one,    Monsieur — 

I  am  a  Belgian,   and  you  see, 

Here  I  was  slashed  on  the  cheek. 

When   a   young   man, 

I    worked    in    England, 

My  three  sons  were  killed  the  first 

year, 

And  two  daughters  led  into  Germany. 
I   have   never   heard  from   them. 
I   am    very    old; 
My  life   is   cheap — 
So  are  the  maps. 
Monsieur? 
Thank  you!   Thank  you!" 


OCTOBER 

(Bois  de   Boulogne) 

O'er  all  the  sky  breathed  a  calm  autumn 

twilight, 
The  landscape  drowsed  in  its  veiled 

auburn  glow, 
When  you   came  gliding  through  pale, 

silver    shadows, 
An  image  of  some  exquisite  Watteau. 

Thy  voice  was  low  in  the  fast-fading 

evening, 

As  music  of  harps  in  the  forest  dim, 
It  might  have   been  a  chanson  of 

Debussy, 
Or  sighing  of  leaves,  sensitively  slim. 

The  delicate  notes  of  the  dryades'  flutes, 
Ne'er  echo  such  charms  in  their  fairy 

flight, 
As  the  soft,  flowing  words  which  hushed 

e'en  the  trees, 
And  left  them  to  dream  in  the  sylvan 

night. 

An  Aphrodite  in  cloaked  Grecian  marble, 
Swan-like  and  holy  in  this  woodland 

place; 
Had  Phidias  known  such  enchanting 

beauty, 
His  stone  would  have  held  thy  immortal 

grace. 


RUE  DE  L'HOTEL  DE  VILLE 

Like  an  old  hump-backed  woman 

With   heavy  feet,   you   pass, 

Carrying   huge    lamps 

Upon  your  aged  shoulders. 

Creeping,    crawling,    staggering, 

On    to   the   river. 

Your   shoes   are   worn, 

And  your  clothes  smell  of  centuries, 

You  are  a  mother  of  criminals  and  saints. 

Your   breath   comes   in  jerks, 

And  is  like  the  foul  air  of  a  damp  cellar. 

Your  hair  is  musty  with  cobwebs, 

Yet   you    have    defied    Time. 

But  Time  is  a  poor,   weak  thing. 


MADMEN 

(Quos  Deus  vult  perdere,  prius  demental) 

Speak  not  of  peace  nor  heed  the  mad 
man's  plea, 

For  madmen  sail  upon  a  crimson  flood, 
Their  galleys   glide   o'er   streams  of 

Freedom's  blood, 
That  they  may  rend  the  emblem  of 

Democracy. 

They  wander  far,  across  a  hopeless  sea, 
To   do   the   biddings   of  their  paltry 

kings, 

Who  gloat  with  lust  and  vain  imaginings 
Of  a  world  bound  by  false  theocracy. 

O  madmen,  think  you,  France  can  e'er 

forget 
Her  mute  cathedrals  mid  the  seething 

towns? 
Will  Belgium  cringe  beneath  your 

servile  threat, 
Or  fear  the  spectre  of  your  braggart 

crowns? 
Think  you,   that  Liberty  'neath  her 

white  flame, 
Will  yield  her  rich  inheritance  and 

name? 


. 


Gaylord  Bros. 

Makers 

Syracuse,  N.  Y. 
PAT.  JAN.  21,  1901 


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